


made of gold

by celestial_txt



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Blindfolds, Collars, Edgeplay, F/M, Finger Sucking, Flogging, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Pegging, Rough Sex, bottom emet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28685937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestial_txt/pseuds/celestial_txt
Summary: “I see you for what you are. Beyond what you want me to see.” She clicks her tongue. “You have a beautiful neck, Emet-Selch. Shame it's not collared.”Getting Emet-Selch to eat out of your hand is sometimes as simple as crafting a collar that fits his neck.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	made of gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narmaeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narmaeth/gifts).



Watching and waiting is a tedious game, but it is one which Emet-Selch plays well. He prefers precision in his strikes, to make a move only with all steps ahead thought out, a trait he has prided himself on for long before the ages of mortal man. It is his forte, after all, the steady hand of an architect to construct the terrible future.

It is not as easy a game as it usually is with Narmaeth. A certain something about her unmoors him from his steadfast, determined ways, much to his own annoyance. He knows how to keep to himself, to shroud himself away from these matters, but it is not that simple this time. She catches his eye, like a glittering jewel refracting sunlight, and to look away is nigh impossible.

From the moment he catches sight of her on the First, following her from city to city to watch and wait, he knows that he will never be able to look away. Not in this lifetime.

How she entrances him. She is clad in the splendor of stars, emblazoned with her own designs, a crafted appearance of sheer beauty. Every day she wears new jewelry and all of them, every single piece, catches in his thoughts. How he wishes to touch them. How he wishes to touch them and feel them warm from her skin underneath. And the other side of the coin as well: she is filled with horrific light and moves as if her shoulders have known no burden in life. He could watch her all day and still not know anything about her, not really. The crux of his fascination with her is that he has to draw closer, but even from a distance the faint scent of her has his brow furrowing.

He knows what it implies. He knows the meaning of her existence, beyond just this one body, and yet…

The pull of her is eternal and damning.

So he stays in the shadows, watching as she works the links of a golden chain together, his eyes moving over her, the hair gathered into a braid to stay out of her way. The iridescent sheen on her scales glow as the sunlight fades from view, and the shadows grow longer in her room, giving him more room to draw closer. As he does, she blinks and sits up straighter, as if his shadows have stirred something within her. She turns her head, the cool blue gaze of hers studying the corner he is in.

“I see you,” she says, clicking two pearls together before turning back to her work. “You keep coming back.”

He takes one step forward, becoming corporeal. He shrugs, feigning indifference to her accusation. “I like to keep an eye on someone I should consider an enemy.”

“Did I not accept you when you came before me?” She stretches her arm, rolling her shoulder to relieve the tension of detail working. “Of course, that just means you are all the closer for when we tire of the games we play.”

He laughs, hollow. “Yes, yes, you and your Scions consider me a more of a threat than a resource. I know that all too well. It would hurt me, if I was any lesser.”

She ignores his barb, humming thoughtfully to herself. “You complain about it enough to make me think it does hurt you.”

He sighs, irritated. “That is your simple world-view on display, is it not?”

“I see more than you think.”

“Do you now? And what do your mortal eyes behold, hmm?”

“I see you for what you are. Beyond what you want me to see.” She clicks her tongue. “You have a beautiful neck, Emet-Selch. Shame it's not collared.” Her words strike like lightning.

Shamelessly he emerges from the shadows and runs his gloved fingers over her white hair, catching a lock and winding it between his fingers. She does not move her head, does not glance at him, and it makes him frustrated. Many things about her do.

He tugs at the lock in his hand. “Look at me.”

She turns her head towards him, slowly, and her gaze is withering. “You are disturbing my work.”

All it does is incite him to get closer, to be more of an annoyance to her. All these things he wants from her and this is just the tip of the iceberg, but at least her attention is focused on him. He can work with that. “Do you take such umbrage to my presence? I think you don’t, not really, or else you would have asked me to leave long ago.”

“I prefer that you watch me from the couch and not from the shadows, if you must insist on lingering around here.”

He holds up his hands. “Very well. But then you do not mind me watching?” He latches on to the spaces between what she says, knowing that what really matters lies therein.

She doesn't reply, her mouth a thin line.

Rolling his eyes, he nonetheless stays, sauntering over to lean back on the couch and indulgently flick his finger to make a book appear in his hand. He does not care to read it, however, instead watching her back as she works, eyes following the trail of her scales as they dip below the collar of her sheer dress.

She makes a noise after half a bell, clearly frustrated with his presence. “I can feel your eyes burning in my back. Is your book not entertaining?”

He slams the book shut, placing it on the table in front of him. “I know everything worth knowing in this flawed existence. I have read everything that has survived here on this shard. There is not much worthwhile to devour anymore.”

“Be that as it may, I am working. Entertain yourself, and keep your eyes to yourself.”

He sighs dramatically. “The ancients could have made that trinket you’re struggling with in the blink of an eye.”

“Is that meant to tempt me? Sway me?”

“It is merely a truth.”

She does not rise to his bait. Instead, she holds up the golden chain, running it between her fingers like water. “You look at this like a crow thieves shiny objects to their nests. For all your posturing, you could do with admitting that there are things worth keeping here.” She tilts her head, a knowing smile on her lips. “You want this.”

He laughs. “Flattering your own craft, are we?”

“Stating the truth. I see the details of you, the gold you wear. This would look better. Let me measure you.”

He quirks an eyebrow, but his curiosity is enough to peel him out of the couch and come up to her work desk. She wordlessly motions for him to come down to her height, refusing to rise for him.

She is infuriating.

“Is this to your liking, hero?” He sinks down on one knee, putting them at equal height, and she does not deign to even give him an encouraging noise.

She simply closes her fingers around his throat, a light barely-there touch that nonetheless draws a conditioned response from him. He sighs, softly, and her lips tilt into a slight smirk. She has been measuring him up since they first met again, he realizes. She has been waiting for this precise moment, an opening for her to strike, to even the game in her favor. This vague, shrouded game they play, drawing closer and closer without stating anything, without a clear show of hands.

She measures his neck with her long fingers, closing them around the column of his throat. Her thumbs press down on the jugular, and she studies him with lips slightly parted. His eyelids half-lowered, he looks at her. He wants to convey disgust. He knows he isn’t. She gets under his skin. She gets under his skin because she gets him, like no one else does.

Her hands trail down his chest, lips moving as she counts under her breath, following the shape of his body. The touch is light, barely there, but the heat of her hands radiates through his shirt, and if he breathes in he can smell the scent of the oils she uses on her scales and hair. His senses are overwhelmed by her, being so close. It’s terrifying in the most delicious way.

She circles her hands around his waist, her eyes drifting up to meet his. “You have more muscles than I thought.” And with that, she removes her hands and quickly sketches down some notes on a paper on her desk, returning to ignoring him. Sucking on the inside of his cheek, he exhales a sigh and rises, opting to go open a wine flask and at least find some degree of enjoyment while she works.

She puts the links together, one at a time, her work precise. He has stopped pretending to read a long time ago. There is no knowledge worth having in these tomes, the lesser shards containing so little of the core truth, just stories reflected through prisms and passed down through the ages. None of that matters, so he watches her hands instead. The darkened fingertips move without hesitation, her head bent over the table.

When the sun rises, he leaves, letting her get on with her heroic deeds that interest him little. He wants the Narmaeth of the night, the one who gets up in the liminal hours, the hours of the dead, and works with a restlessness that keeps him fascinated. It is that Narmaeth he finds himself thinking of when the weight of the eternal light wears him out. The Narmaeth who brings back the night sky, tearing herself apart in the process. What a fascinating creature she is.

The next night he returns, bringing a better bottle of wine, spending the night studying the minute movements of her muscles as she takes her time. The red wine does little to intoxicate him, but it stirs the gnawing hunger in him, the raw desire to get closer. He cannot stop himself as he crosses the floor, not bothering to hide the sound of his approaching footsteps.

He traces his finger over the precise beading of her robe, down from the shoulder to the hem of the sleeve and lower yet over her marked skin. Mapping out all the sensitive spots, finding his way back to her. So many things remain the same the more she changes, the more the passage of time alters her.

She exhales the breath she’s holding. “Not now. I am working.”

Their dance is slow, so painfully slow — he has waited aeons already, and yet she finds it imperative to make him wait longer. The exhalation tells him enough, at least. He does not bother hiding the smugness in his laugh as he steps back and returns to recline on the couch. Draping an arm over his face to blot out the sharp light above her workspace, the soft rhythmic noise of handicraft acts like a soothing spell on him. Not that it ever takes much effort for him to slip into sleep and dreams, the temptation to succumb to rest lingering and constant in his existence.

He dreams of better times. He always does.

He dreams of a city not underneath the waters, but underneath a resplendent sky dappled with luminous stars. In his dream, however, she is there, in her current form. She is so small, so deceptively fragile, her hands trailing across the cool golden surface of a building. Nothing about her fits into the Amaurot of his dreams, dripping with gold and jewels as she is, the rich fabric of her dress wrapping around her body and glittering in tandem with the stars.

It is not how it should be.

And yet it is how it is — a different kind of beauty. A world remade to fit her as she is right now into it. His dreams make room for _her_.

The nights come and go, and each night he returns to her suite, waiting for her to call him out of the shadows and tell him what to do with himself. Some nights, she makes him kneel in front of her as she measures his neck again, her fingers closing around it, her cool eyes taking him in. What she sees in him is beyond his knowing, and it bothers him.

He knows her craft should not take this long, but he does not protest at being kept waiting at her beck and call. It annoys him, yes, but the friction of her games at least catches his interest well enough to keep him coming back. He has all the time in the world. She… Well, less so, in her case, and ticking ever downwards. If she wants to waste it on keeping him waiting, then that's her prerogative.

Her hands still, and she hums, the clink of her boxes being sorted through before she raises her voice. “It’s done.”

“You took your time.”

“Good work does. It does not do to cut corners.” She motions for him to get up, to get closer to her, much in the same way one motions for a trained war hound to come. “Undress.” The way she commands it is sharp, and he raises an eyebrow.

“You could test it on top of my shirt, you know.”

“We both know what we want, don’t we?”

Indeed, they do. He snaps his fingers, his coat and shirt vanishing into thin air. If she has discerned this much, he is willing to yield a little as well.

She stands up on the tip of her toes, the cool metal of the collar raising goosebumps on his skin as she closes it around his neck, and she begins to adorn him. A single cool chain drops down over his chest, followed by another and another. She drapes them over his shoulder, his skin shivering where the cold chains land. She circles around him, adjusting how they fall, going back to grab a tool and make small changes. Each time her fingertips brush over him he suppresses how he wants to react to the sensation, but she does not let him get away that easily. Her breath ghosts over his spine as she leans in, and she tugs on the chains hard enough to make him gasp.

He grimaces. “You could apologize for such rough handling, you know. It’s called manners.”

“Why be sorry when you clearly enjoy it?” She tests him by tugging again, and when it elicits the same response she takes a step back and looks him over.

“Something is missing.” She taps her fingers against his chest. “Here. There is no balance.” She moves two chains until they rest over his nipples, holding them there as they harden.

He arches an eyebrow. “What are you planning?”

Her only response is to pinch one of the nipples, hard, wrapping the chain around the erect bud and leaning back to take in the whole sight of him. Her brows furrow, eyes more focused on her own handiwork than him. With a nod, she seems pleased. “This will work.”

She darts back to the desk to get a plier, and quickly attaches a clamp to the end of the chain. With the new addition, she closes it around his nipple and he gasps at the sensation. A sting of pain surges through him, chased closely by sheer pleasure, and she watches his face as she adjusts the pressure. She alters the second chain as well, attaching it to his other nipple.

“I could make it permanent if that tickles your fancy so much,” he drawls. “It is, after all, a tiny alteration to this body. Would you not marvel at witnessing that?”

“If you become interesting enough to me, maybe. But you aren’t. Not yet.”

“That so? Then, pray tell, what am I to you?”

“An annoyance. Like a fly buzzing for my attention.”

“You liken me to a simple insect.”

“You have done nothing to earn my favor. You _are_ an insect.” She smiles at him, despite the acid in her words, despite how brutally she cuts him down to size.

And Emet-Selch cannot help but wonder at what it will take to have her value him. “What would earn it?”

“The day you come here and kneel before me is the day I will find you interesting. Perhaps.” She smiles slightly, lips closed. “You would have to impress me though.” She wraps one of the chains around her finger, tugging at it. “Until then…”

He wishes she would slap him. Spit on him. Kiss him with teeth so sharp he cuts himself open on her affection. But she is withdrawn, cool and distant. She does not give an ilm more than she wants to him, and right now she does not want him at all.

“Very well.”

He snaps his fingers and leaves, returning to the depths of the oceans, to the safety of his Amaurot.

In his frustration with her, he takes off the intricate chains and flings them on the couch, ignoring its existence for days as he conjures up distraction after indulgence in his replicated Amaurot. The finery he summons are all Garlean and Allagan, but the taste of the wine sours in his mouth when he thinks of her words. Of the implications. That despite all his bluster about the past he finds things to enjoy in the present.

That despite it all, he enjoys who she is now, at this very cursed and fleeting moment in time. And despite how he wishes otherwise, the pull of her continues to keep him coming back to her shadows, to watch and wait.

She is radiant, as always. How can he explain that to her—that there is an always with her, that there are a thousand constants with her, a thousand unfulfilled promises, the obsession of the eternal return? That she has always held him in the palm of her hand, and he has always waited to be crushed in it? All she has to do is choose him. All she has to do is take him.

It is a possession long before she even lays a hand on him. She has him right where she wants him, all she would have to do is extend her hand and he’d drop to his knees and eat right out of her palm.

He hates it. He loves it. It annihilates him completely, to know that she is so close, so infernally near and yet keeping him at arm’s length.

Nights pass, his eyes narrowed as he watches her from the cover of darkness. She saw him once. She saw through his veils, past all of it, and now he yearns for her to do it again. What will it take to catch her eye again?

In Amaurot, he toys with the body chain she made him, moving it between his fingers. The cool metal soothes his skin. He wonders if this is all it would take. It’d be so simple, and so revealing, all in one. She has pushed the cards over to him, but she still has the winning hand. Hardly fair. He smiles, toying with the smooth seamless lock of the collar. Indeed, she is not fair to him at all. Precisely how he likes it.

It takes so little for him to fall. At least for the right person. The only person for him.

His clothes vanish in the flick of a finger. Placing the collar around his own neck, he moves the chains into the same arrangements she did on him. Just one minor adjustment, for his sake more than hers. A show of good faith.

There is a different kind of tension in the air that night in her room. Lighting flashes outside, rain pelting the window. During one flash of light that illuminates the entire room, she catches sight of him. Her eyes narrow enough to peel him out of the dark shadows. Her blue eyes lock with his golden ones, and she beckons at him with one long finger.

“You are back.” It is a rare occurence to see her not working, the silk robe she wears draped like a silvery waterfall over her body. The fabric of it is so thin he can see the outline of her scales underneath. “So what now, Ascian?”

“Took you long enough.”

“I did not care for what I saw. Not until tonight.” She reaches underneath the shirt collar and hooks her finger into his necklace, giving it a harsh tug. The sting pulses through his body, like a levinbolt hitting right at his nerves. He looks down at her through his eyelashes, the haze of desire blurring his vision enough that he almost sees a familiar halo surrounding her. Closing his eyes fully he pushes the thought down and away.

“I have come for your favor.” He drops to his knees and it draws a smile from her. They both know who has won. They both know he is entirely hers.

“I thought you would break faster.” She pauses. “Though in the time span of things, I guess this is fast for one such as yourself. You want to be mine.”

“Yes.”

She grabs his chin, the nail on her thumb digging into his skin. “I am not gentle.”

“I have never asked you to be. I would never dare to.”

In another life, perhaps he would feel shame for this confession. By now there have been enough of them to peel that feeling away.

“Good. That is how I like you.”

She undresses him, taking her time, the fabric parting bit by bit and revealing his bare skin underneath. She meticulously keeps her fingers light and barely there, but her breath flutters against the naked skin. When she removes his shirt she pauses, fingers circling beneath his nipples that he has altered to be pierced, the chains draping perfectly from them.

“Presumptuous of you.” She digs her nails into the sensitive skin around his nipple and he hisses, back arching into the sensation. She licks her lips, looking him straight in the eye as she does, and then kisses the skin just above the piercing with wet lips, dragging her tongue down over it. He gasps, a shiver passing through his body.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs, taking in his reaction. She runs her fingers through his hair and she touches him, the aetheric chill of death trailing behind her movements. Like drawing to like. She steps back and he follows, driven by pure instinct. She puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back. “Stay.”

Even a simple command like that frustrates him more than he would ever want to show her. He grins. “Of course.”

She opens a drawer and moves some implements from within onto the counter space, and his mouth goes dry catching sight of them. Oh, how well they will fit together if this is her poison of choice.

All of that, and she comes up to him with a silken black blindfold in her hands.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

He laughs. “Of course not.” But he wants to. He takes her wrists and closes his eyes as the blindfold wraps around him.

“Good.”

She presses close to him as she ties it over his eyes. The darkness is familiar, always, soft and pleasant in how it speaks to him, but it is far different when he knows she is the one in control of it. He could cheat. They both know it. The fact that he does not tells a story he does not care to acknowledge.

The warmth of her pressed against him is almost too much to bear, and he tries to lean in to kiss her.

“Not yet.” She takes her hand away from the blindfold and bites his lower lip, hard. He can feel the smile in the tension of her lips.

“Such cruel treatment, when I have done nothing to deserve it!”

“You have earned worse and more.” She tugs at the chain, leading him where she wants him to go. He follows in a haze of want, a messy desire that rises within him and makes him obedient. For her, anything, and it is as damning of him as it is liberating.

She shoves him down onto the bed and pins him down underneath her as she ties his ankles and wrists to the bed frame.

She plucks at the fabric of his pants. “This is in the way.”

“You need merely ask.”

“Why? You want me more than I want you.”

She leans away from him, waiting. She is infuriating. With a simple magick trick his pants dissolve, and he is fully naked on the bed. He wants to reach out, grab her by her delicate wrists and get those cool hands back on his skin. “Stop teasing me.”

“You think it ends here? No. We have only just begun.”

She leaves the bed and the lack of touch from her has him wild, has him feral. He groans, frustrated, rising up on his elbows to complain.

“What kind of game do you think you are playing?”

“No game. Those do not interest me right now.”

He barks out a sharp laugh. “No? And what would you call what we are doing? What have we been doing to each other?”

“A preamble to something horrific, I’m sure.”

She returns, and her fingers trail down over his skin, tugging on the chains that connect to his nipples. He gasps, the sheer force of the sensation far beyond what it was before. The blindfold closing off one of his senses has heightened the others, and all she does to him is all the more pressing for it.

He arches up into her touch, and she withdraws it, much to his consternation. No games. He could laugh, if only she was not being so damned good with that delicate precise touch of hers, keeping him right where she wants him: hanging on to every little flutter of fingertips against his skin.

“Of all the things you could do to me, you chose this.”

She sighs and before he can make another witty comeback her fingers are in his mouth, pushing into his throat. He swallows around them, coughing, and she works another finger in and thrusts them in and out of his mouth. It is degrading, the way saliva drips from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. He desperately wants to rip off the blindfold and glare at her, put her on the withering end of his disdain. Of all the things she could be doing to him, and she knows exactly what gets him harder.

His cock aches for her touch and he bucks his hips upward, hoping she will take the hint, anything. Instead, she trails her saliva-coated fingers down over his neck and chest, the cool air of the room making him shudder at the wet trails left behind. Pushing the chains to his sides, she stops at the top of his thigh, then shifts on the bed to reach for something on the nightstand.

She pauses above him, just for long enough to have him open his mouth to whine, but before any words come out a sharp sting hits over his chest. The leather tips of the flogger heat up his skin, leaving a burning surge of pain that blossoms outwards and has his cock twitching in need.

“Good?”

“Yes,” he moans. “Very good.”

Barely has he finished exhaling the word that the flogger hits him again, and he laughs in a dizzying haze of pain and pleasure, bucking up underneath her even as she strikes him once more. The pain is like hot liquid rippling through his body, the titillating heat that sets his nerve endings ablaze. It hurts and it is so, so good.

“Again.”

She lets the leather tips strike his skin, harder this time, the sting all the sweeter for it.

“You. Are. Not. In. Charge.” She punctuates each word with another strike, each hit of the flogger feeling like a rush of fire in his bloodstream. Pain is such a strange and intoxicating sensation, horrifically embarrassing because it reminds him of what he has bound himself to. A vessel of flesh and blood. It grounds him. It makes him feel terrifyingly human. Like he can taste mortality on the tip of his tongue.

“Is that what you tell yourself?” He is more affected than he would like by her ministrations, trying to hide it behind a smug smile even as she drags her sharp nails across the painful red welts from where the leather landed on his torso.

“It’s what I know.” She stresses the last word as if she knows something he does not. At least the pain she inflicts drowns out that thought.

Lost in the blissful haze of ache, he cries out when she does stop. “Do you think you are done with me?” he complains, arching off the bed even as his heated skin cries out to be soothed.

She tears off the blindfold, grinning down at him in a wild manner. “Far from it.”

“I’d be disappointed in your stamina if you were.”

She hums, clearly not caring about his words as she slowly, cruelly, drags her nails down his raw skin. He hisses between his teeth, biting the tip of his tongue as he watches her settle down on her knees between his legs. She runs her hands up his thighs and finally, _finally_ looks directly at his cock. All while she has been toying with him up she has carefully avoided it, but the chains on her arms keep grazing it and the light sensation of it drives him wild.

She gathers her long hair over her shoulder and leans down over it, dripping saliva onto his cock, a long shivering string. His cock twitches in response, aching with how hard it is.

It is the most she does to him for ages. It feels like bells passing as she simply watches the spit drip down his cock, all the way to the root, before doing it again, her fingers not touching him, her breath just barely out of reach to be more than felt.

He tugs at the ropes around his wrists and growls. “Take my cock in your damned mouth and stop teasing!”

She does not even deign to look at him. “No, no I don’t think I will. You haven’t earned it.”

She drips spit onto his dick and he watches and by Zodiark, he feels it as it drags down his skin, hot and wet and nasty. He hates how hard it makes him, how disgusting it is that she can make pre-cum well up this easily from so little. All the time she has kept her silent distance she must have been reading him, mapping him out.

He throws his head back into the pile of pillows and laughs, hoarse and cruel.

“The things I could do to you,” he hisses. “I could make you feel things you have never enjoyed once in your pathetic, mortal life. You would ride new heights of pleasure that would fracture your mind. Do you not find it a beautiful thing to consider? Would you not enjoy yourself? I have so many forms, dear, so many things I could be for you. All you have to do is want it enough to voice it.”

“I don’t find you that pleasing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

She cuts him down to size, she kicks it all out from under him, and in the strange whirlpool of desire and humiliation he comes. His seed covers his stomach and he arches off the bed, seeking more of her touch, seeking anything she can give him, but all he receives is the sharp sting of her nails dragging down the length of his cock.

“I did not tell you that you were allowed.”

“You are not providing what I want, so.”

“You should take what you can from what I give you, and not an onze more. You greedy, filthy bastard.”

“My apologies, then, that I have to find my own pleasure when you won’t give it to me. You see fit to tease me instead of give to me.”

“You think you are worthy?” She digs her nails into the base of his cock. “You think far too highly of yourself.”

“Why won’t you fuck me? Why are you teasing me?”

She flashes him a cruel smile. “Because I do so enjoy seeing you like this, in all your depraved and needy glory.”

When she finally does take his cock in her hand he cannot help himself, the warmth and slickness of her hand coated in his saliva has him falling over the edge in such an embarrassingly fast way. He comes, bucking into her touch, fucking himself into her still hand. She squeezes his cock tight, the pressure wringing the final drops out of him before he falls back down on the mattress, a finished mess.

She curls her fingers around him, thumbing at the head of his dick, teasing out some more drops. “You’ve made such a mess of yourself.”

“You could care more for me and I would be pristine.”

She barks out a sharp, cruel laugh. She scoops up his cum and smears it over his face, and he greedily licks it up, sucking her fingers clean when she shoves them into his mouth. “You don’t want to be pristine with me. You want to be ruined.”

And she is right, so right. He wants to have more.

“Fuck me already.”

“You can do better.”

“You are so _infuriating_.”

“Not that I should need to remind you, but you came to me. You are in my territory. My rules apply. And I want you to beg and grovel and whine for me.” She flicks a finger against his dick, dragging her sharp fingernail over the tip of it. “Think of me what you will, but I am in no rush to take you lest I hear what I want.”

“Have I not humiliated myself enough? Shown myself willing enough? I want you to take me. I want you to use me for your own damn pleasure. Make of me what you want. Narmaeth, just do something. _Anything_.”

“You don’t want just anything.”

“I want you to fuck me,” he snaps. “Is that what you wish to hear? I want to make me scream your name. I want you. It’s that simple. You need not dress it up any further.”

“And usually you are so willing to wax on and on about your virtues.”

He tugs on the ropes again, and she watches with a bemused expression.

“We both know you could snap them off if you wanted to.” She runs her knuckles up the back of his cock, smiling as it teases another swell of pre-cum out of him. “This is nothing but pure surrender on your part.”

So he does. His hands freed in the blink of an eye, he sits up, grabbing her hand by the wrist. “Enough games, Narmaeth.”

Not even this has her unnerved. She just does that close-lipped smirk of hers. “Not having fun?”

“I want you.”

“There’s a simple word to make me give that to you. You know it. It should be on the tip of your tongue.”

He cups her face with one hand, tracing his thumb over her lower lip. Just touching her like this he can feel the light within her, and he cannot help but marvel at how she contains it. No other mortal would be able to hold even a sliver of it, and yet within her it rests, almost calmed. What a strange and intoxicating power. What a marvel she is.

“Please.”

“Please, _what_?”

As if she would give him what he wants that easily.

“Please. Fuck me. Do to me whatever you desire. Take whatever pleasure you want from me. Just do something to me.” He trails his fingers down over her neck, leaning his face closer to hers, close enough that their nose tips are brushing together. “ _Please_.”

“Such a pretty mouth.” She teases the promise of a kiss against his mouth and then withdraws, leaving the bed.

He swallows the aching frustration, leaning back on the bed to watch as she languidly sheds her robe and pulls on a strap-on harness. He is tempted to just snap his fingers and have it on her already, but he also admires the view more than enough to stay his hand. She takes her time, tightening the straps until it’s flush against her hips, and he tugs her over to him.

She holds him by his hair and presses the tip of the strap to his lips. He licks the tip with his tongue, then down the side of the length, maintaining eye contact with her all the while. This is what matters the most to him: to be seen by her. To be known.

He opens his mouth and takes the strap-on phallus into his mouth, looking up at her with big eyes as he takes it all the way to the root, swallowing around it, and she grabs his hair and holds him there. He won’t quit that easily, and holds as he sucks, moaning around it.

“Eager.”

He cannot reply with his mouth full, but he furrows his eyebrows, glaring up at her.

“You can hardly look graceful with a cock in your mouth, you know.”

She is testing him. She really is.

He swallows around the length, and in response she surges her hips forward, hitting the back of his throat. He gags, hands flying up to hold onto her thighs, but she clicks her tongue.

“Hands down.”

He reluctantly obeys, putting his hands behind his back, and relaxes his jaw as much as possible. She pulls at his hair as she fucks into his mouth, seeming to enjoy the noises he makes as she does.

She slaps his cheek, laughing. “You could make your body be anything. Yet you chose to be like this.”

He did. He could claim accuracy but does accuracy matter when with the snap of his finger, he could undo the entirety of the room they are in? No. This is submission.

Her tail flicks against his arm, hard, when he tries to touch himself, and he pulls back in annoyance, glaring at her, but it’s hard to hide just how her roughness is affecting him. He’s rock-hard and aching, droplets of pre welling up at the tip, and he cups her ass and pushes her even deeper into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat. She wants submission? She wants to see how much he is willing to surrender? Fine. He does nothing like this half-hearted, after all.

She pulls out of him, long strings of saliva dangling between the tip and his lips, and he obediently swallows, licking his lips clean as he gazes up at her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“How long have you yearned for this?” he asks.

“Not even half as long as you have.”

His smile drops into a scowl. She reads him too well sometimes, gets right to the heart of him, eviscerates him.

She sees him, past all the subterfuge and veils and misdirections. It’s been a long time since he was truly seen like this, truly appreciated, truly known, and of course fate is cruel enough that it has to be at her mercy.

Her hands are gentle and rough, all at once, and he wants to stop and play with the jewelry that hangs from her neck, trailing down between the swell of her breasts, he wants to lick and kiss and suck them into his mouth. He is ravenous and her only response is to pin down his hands, tugging at the chains draped over his torso if he tries it again.

She grabs a small vial from the nightstand before she climbs over his long legs onto the bed, pressing his knees apart and up as she settles between them.

Her oiled fingers press against the puckered ring. Her tongue darts out and licks at her bottom lip and that, the things she does to her mouth, undoes him.

She scissors her fingers apart inside him and he bites into his knuckles, the cool sensation of lubricant following after. She takes her time, working it into him, not satisfied until her fingers slip in and out without any friction.

“This is not your precious past, yet…” She thrusts the fingers into him, grinning down. “There is value in this. In me. In the present existing.”

She removes the fingers from him, eliciting a disappointed whine from his lips.

“Needy.”

“When you tease as cruelly as this, any emperor would fall at your knees for you.”

“I don’t want emperors. But I do want you.”

He is not sure if it is the admission of want or the sensation of her inside him, but comes when she pushes the tip of the strap into him, and she laughs. “You are such a depraved creature.” She slaps him lightly and still pushes inside and he is so overstimulated he can only moan, rendered useless and boneless in her hands.

She presses herself further into him until she is flush against him, shifting her legs so she is comfortable before grasping his limp cock and giving it some lazy strokes. He whines deep in his throat and she smirks down at him, and it is such an intimate thing, to be seen by her, to be had by her. To be tied up and taken.

“More,” he pants, needy enough that he tries to fuck himself on the length of her strap.

“Why don’t you use those powers you lord over me and make it the size you need it to be?”

He glares at her. “You should know this kind of simple trick by now.”

He wants to retort that it would be better, that she would be able to do far more depraved things to him, that their bodies and pleasures were far different and more, but the way she is hitting against the spot inside him has him seeing stars. He digs his nails into the sheets so hard that they rip, and she runs her nails down his chest, hooking a finger into the nearest chain and tugging. The sting of pain, followed by the sensation of her pulling almost all the way out of him, it’s enough to drive him wild.

“I’d rather watch you humble yourself. Or I could simply keep fucking you like this…” And he knows he will not be able to deny himself any longer. He needs more from her, a deep-seated hunger that courses through him. It will not be enough to not have her, to not be at her mercy. To not feel filled to the brim and still delight in knowing that she could push him further.

“Pay attention, dear. You might learn a thing or two.”

Her eyes widen as he works his magick, thickening the strap, elongating it, adding a ridge at the top as a flourish for his own pleasure. “What I am learning is what you hunger for.”

“Are you just going to admire my handiwork, or will you actually get on with fucking me?” He drawls the words out, but he is straining against the bonds that keep him in place below her. If she does not make good on her promise to fuck him, he will ride himself to completion on her. He is way past shame about it now.

She circles his asshole with her fingers, the pads pressing and then relaxing, and he stares at her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“You can go harder, dear.”

She looks at him with that undivided attention, that intense gaze, the dark sclera like a night to get lost in. She presses the thumb in and he arches off the bed, the sensation so delightful and intense and oh, so, much, it’s everything he has missed having done to him. Thousands of years and he finds himself here again, under her hands, and she is not the same, not quite, but it is still a wonderous thing, to be seen by her, to be touched and taken and pressed into by her.

She moves the thumb in down to the first knuckle, watching him without betraying her feelings, while he does the opposite. His brow furrows, his lips part, and he sighs in pleasure, grabbing her by the wrist and pushing it all the way in.

“Give me more,” he demands, and she pinches the skin at the back of his thigh so hard that he hisses, the sting of pain like a shock through his system. It makes him annoyed and it makes him _hard_.

She pulls out and for a few moments he gapes open, aching for her to fill him up again, and then she pushes two oil-slick fingers in, the stretch even more delicious. Her chin juts out as she takes in his squirm, how he holds on to her wrist and fucks himself on her fingers, he wants more and more and he is absolutely wanton in how just these tiny delicate fingers of hers are not enough.

“Greed has always suited you,” she says, and the meaning hangs heavy in the air as he pauses to truly look at her.

He wants to ask, _how much do you remember today? How far back can you see?_ And on another side of the coin, he does not know if he can bear the answer. Wherever it lands. Some things are better left unknown, and this is not the time nor the place for it.

She moves her fingers slowly, in and out, curving them up to press against that soft spot within him, and she smirks when it has him moaning in just a few thrusts.

“You are easy,” she says.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, dear.”

“It’s not me doing the flattering, it’s you. With the way you moan, you could awaken the dead.”

She is right, and he bites back a snarl even as his eyelids flutter shut. She adds a third finger and he cannot hold it back much longer, does not feel compelled enough to keep himself clean. Magick be damned, he has earned this.

He comes, making a mess out of himself, and she seizes on the opportunity to bring him over the edge fully, her other hand closing around his cock and squeezing and pumping until his hands clutch the sheets around him and he arches up into her touch, coming again and spilling over her hand.

“Thank you,” he says, sprawling out on the bed as the heady rush of the orgasm washes through him, leaving him soft and satisfied.

“You made a mess.”

“Yes, you should enjoy it. The fruits of your labor, as it were.”

She holds up her hand, covered in thick strings of his seed. “Clean it up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “As you command.”

He takes her hand in his and brings it to his mouth, obedient only because of how it makes him feel to obey her, his tongue wrapping around her fingers and sucking them clean one by one, dipping between them, running over the back of the knuckles, finishing with kissing the inside of her palm.

“Is that to your satisfaction?”

“Yes. Anything that keeps your mouth busy is satisfying.”

“Now why would you want that? Don’t you want to enjoy my admiration?”

“I hear no admiration nor worship from those lips, only demands.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It would be a good look on you, at least.”

He closes both his hands around her wrist, running one of them up her arm to cup the back of her neck. “Fuck me, and I will worship at your feet. I will turn myself into anything you want, whenever you so desire. Do you understand? All the power I hold in my hands, and it is as your disposal if you ask.”

She grips his chin between two fingers, a wry smile on her lips. “Almost good enough.” She shoves him down onto the pile of pillows and lines herself up between his legs. It takes so little for her to slide into him, despite the new size of the strap-on.

When she fucks into him it’s like stars exploding in his vision, a taste of something long lost unfurling on his tongue. He did not know, not really, how much he had wanted this, not until she is sliding inside him and exhaling a content sigh as she comes flush against him. The leather straps of her harness brush against the back of his thighs as she spreads his legs further apart, the cool metal buckles sending a shiver across his skin.

He has so many clever, acidic retorts poised on his tongue before she pulls out and angles herself a little bit higher, hitting the spot within him that has him moaning wantonly.

In her hands, he would let her do anything to him. Something about his gaze must have tipped her off to this, he realizes, as she leans over him to tie the blindfold back on. The last thing he sees is her face, the scales shimmering in muted colours, the necklace dripping down to touch his chin. Framed by her light hair, she is so radiant and beautiful. There are so many things he could call her, all of them humiliatingly steeped in a deep-rooted worship, and all of them far too revealing of how much he wants her to stay inside of him, to make him hers, over and over.

When she fucks into him he moans, shameless and debased. For her he will always be depraved and needy like this, he will always want her to ruin him, it’s a doomed love that draws him to her like a moth to a flame. He wants her to know him, to know every part of his cursed self and his twisted desires. He wants her to take him apart, to peel him apart with her eyes and hands and to get inside him and rough him up.

He could cheat, of course. The blindfold is merely matter, his perception ranges far wider than just this physical body, but to willingly limit himself for her is a heady and intoxicating submission. To be for her, to be used by her, to be hers.

She fucks him like she wants to own him, and he smiles, laughing at how she treats him.

“Possessive, dear?”

She scores her nails down the back of his thigh, eliciting a pained hiss from him. “No. Not yet.”

The shuddering promise, despite the sharpness of her voice, has his breath trembling.

He comes, and she does not stop. She fucks him through the orgasm, through the rippling pleasure that unfolds in him and pushes him into the next cresting wave. Barely has he gathered himself before he feels the cruel tendrils of the next one tightening in him.

“Narmaeth…”

She closes her hand around his dick pressed between their sweat-slick bodies, the tightness of her fingers making him cry out as he comes in a sudden burst of pain and pleasure.

She is merciless, in a beautiful and terrible way, knowing exactly where to push him harder without being soft. For all her cruelty, however, he can hear her breathing growing more laboured, her thrusts sharper and more erratic. Only a mortal, after all. Even as she pulls more aether into herself, even as she leans over him and scrapes her sharp teeth over his chest, there cannot be much left in her. It is a wicked twist of fate that he is never satiated, indeed.

He feels his way up from her hand at his side, running his fingers over her scales.

“Don’t exhaust yourself on my account.”

She snaps her teeth at him.

“I mean it, dear. I will always hunger. I will always be here, waiting.”

She shoves her fingers into his mouth, thrusting into him with newfound energy, a sharpness to her movements that has him crying out around her digits. He wraps his legs around her, drawing her deeper, trying to keep her there as she hits the right spot over and over. Her other hand slips over his chest, trying to find something to hold on to. She grasps the chains, tangling them into her fingers and tugging hard enough to make him hiss. The surge of pain is so sudden and so delicious that he cannot help himself.

She makes him come one final time and then rolls off him. When the strap-on pulls out of him he whines, gaping uncomfortably empty and the stickiness of his own seed covering his skin. He takes the blindfold off himself, looking at her to see her chest rising and falling rapidly as she sprawls on the bed next to him.

“Let me.”

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised, but she gives a small nod. He unbuckles the harness around her hips, taking his time soothing over the red indentations on her skin from wearing it, even going as far as being respectful with how he places it on the nightstand. When he makes a point, he goes all the way, and he needs her to know this about him: he is dedicated to her already.

The friction of the chains on the sheet as he shifts into position between her legs is enough to get him hard enough again, and he chokes his needy moan into a kiss on the inside of her thigh. He parts her knees and rests them over his shoulders.

His tongue traces the soft folds between her legs, hands gripping her thighs as he leans into it. He wants to hear her yield a little noise, a moan, anything. She is dripping wet from what she has done to him, but still she just watches him with a tilted head, fingers playing with his hair. Good, yes, but not good enough.

It would not do to be perceived as selfish by her, after all.

He parts her labia with the tip of his tongue, drawing in deep of the scent and taste.

He used to know her, all of her. Once, long ago…

No. He has never known this one. He has never known her like this. A thrilling and exhilarating realization just as it is the terrifying unknown. Who is she, indeed, but a mystery for him to unravel and unfold, piece by piece until he knows her again.

He moves away from her cunt, mouth moving along the inside of her thigh, kisses planted in a trail from knee upwards toward the apex. His hunger is endless, yes, but that does not mean he is above making her wait for her just dessert as well. Nor is he above repaying her for the ache, dragging the edge of his teeth very lightly over her soft skin and feeling the fingers in his hair digging down.

He smiles, looking up at her, and dips his mouth down to place a terribly cruel and teasing kiss, hard enough to be felt but far enough from the clit to not matter.

“I’m not going to beg.”

“Shame.” He slides two fingers inside of her, taking his time easing them in. Still her eyes are soft, still her fingers in his hair are relaxed.

This simply will not do. He needs more from her than just this.

He laps at her, tongue circling the edges of her clit without touching it directly. He yearns for a moan, an exhaled sigh, a tremor in her perfectly controlled muscles. _Anything. Give anything of yourself to me. Please._

Perhaps the fastest way to do that is to resort to her way of playing the game.

He lifts his face from between her legs and she tuts, yanking him back forcefully. He grins as she wraps her legs around him, digging her heels into his back, his face full of her cunt. No matter what she says, no matter how cold her hand is with treating him, at least she wants him enough to give in this much. It is a small victory in the grander scheme of things.

He closes his lips around her clit and sucks, increasing the pressure as he glances up at her. There is a tremor in her lower lip, almost imperceptible, but enough for him to know that he is striking the right chord with her. A bead of sweat forms between her breasts and drips down, his eyes entranced as it slides over the iridescent scales.

No matter what she tries, he has her almost where he wants her. The tension in her muscles is building, arching her back ever so slightly, the tip of his nose buried between her folds. His fingers curve inside of her, her wet cunt dripping into the palm of his hand.

It is not as loud as he desires, not the scream of unbridled pleasure. She makes a soft noise, her muscles clenching around his fingers as she comes. He does not let up that easily, licking and lapping at her until she softens in his hands, falling back down on the bed with a sheen on her forehead and a glow to her features.

He sits up, wiping at his messy face with his thumb, licking it clean as he maintains eye contact with her. She does not waver, watching him coolly, but there is a hint of amusement in her voice as her eyes drop down to take in the rest of his body, marred and marked by what she has done to him.

“You are _filthy_.” He is. His own come covers his lower stomach, not to mention her wetness gleaming on his face.

“Lest you forget it is all because of you, dear.”

“You enjoyed it, though.” Spoken like a factional statement, and not a question. She nudges the body chain with her tail, rising up onto her elbows and motioning for him to come closer to her face. “You can be so good, sometimes. Useful, even. Perhaps I will keep you around.”

He bends his head down to her, his lips ghosting over her cheekbone. “Please do.”

Her fingers hook in his collar, a small smile on her lips as she presses them to his. Their first kiss, after he has already been defiled and used up by her, still gets to him more than he would ever admit.

She rubs her thumb over the smooth surface of the collar. “Wear it more. It suits you.”

“As you command.”

“That I do.”

These are the moments he could lose himself in. The moments of her he wants to cherish, be drowned in, be consumed by. There was never anyone else for him.

Surrender is soft and gentle and given willingly. Her hands treat him just the way he aches for, always, and how could he possibly resist?

So he wears the collar daily, barely hidden beneath his shirt. Emet-Selch seeks to please, after all. And what greater earthly delight is there than to see Narmaeth’s wry smile as she notices the merest glimmer of the collar under the sunshine? What could be more delicious than having her slide a finger into the perfect space left between metal and skin, tailored to fit no more than the width of her index finger, and make him lean down to her level? What greater blessing of this hollow world is there than her?

Of all the earthly blessings mortals could bestow on him, this is the only one Emet-Selch cares about: Narmaeth pinning him down, with her words and ropes and hands, and expertly taking him apart in her gilded hands. All else is naught but dust to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Narmaeth belongs entirely to Bunny. Thank you for letting me have a crack at writing her, she was a delight!
> 
> My twitter is [@celestial_txt](https://twitter.com/celestial_txt) & [my carrd](https://celestial-txt.carrd.co/) is here.


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